


Tailor-Dude & Pretty Boy: A Love Story in 5 Acts

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, And By Better, Falling In Love, Head over heels and in denial, I Mean The World, Idiots in Love, M/M, One True Pairing, Past Relationship(s), these boys deserve better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: An overworked but skilled tailor and an immature but talented soldier are almost destined to fall in love.Either that, or kill each other.





	1. When They First Meet, They Don't Know It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hamartia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14614752) by [jaimesselfishmachines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines). 



> {{Everything in curly/squiggly brackets is spoken French.}}  
> People should ship Hercules/Laurens more.

 

The room is perfectly still; that is until the tranquillity is rudely interrupted.

The door to his shop slams open, wood smashing into the wall’s plaster. The sound makes Hercules startle, causing the accidental stabbing into the flesh of his thumb with a Chenille needle. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, dropping the offending weapon. He pops his thumb in his mouth and sucks on the blood beginning to pearl into the ridges of his fingerprint. Ms Schuyler would have his head if even one drop stained the imperial lace set out in front of him. He pushes off of his chair, standing and waltzing over to greet whoever had caused his stabbing. A patriot, by the looks of the deep blues that run along the length of his uniform. Hercules knows his own handiwork. Long curls thankfully spare the intruder’s eyes from Hercules’ glare. Lesser men had been struck dead by the same gaze.

“Good evening.” Hercules releases his thumb with a wet pop, shaking out his hand, “What can I do for you?”

The young man is almost buzzing with energy, cheeks raw and red from the cold. He’s shivering, teeth chattering from the snowy draught his entry has provided. 

“Tailor Dude,” a finger pointing in his direction clears any doubt in Hercules’s mind that the moniker ‘Tailor Dude’ is referring to  _ him _ . “Nathanael Greene has ordered the p-production of three hundred more Patriot uniforms.”

“Your hands are empty; you come without cash.” Hercules raises an eyebrow, “Why should I give a shit what  _ Nathanael Greene _ orders?”

“He is commander of the continental armies in the South.” The curly-haired youth looks about ready to pounce, staring at Hercules like the man has grown two extra heads. 

“That means nothing to me.”

“It is treason to flout an order.”

“And it would be financial suicide to undertake a project that large without a security deposit.” Hercules crosses his arms, watching as the patriot searches the ceiling for answers. The soldier’s face screws up tightly in thought, before snapping back to relaxation like a rubber band.

“I could kill you.” The words are simple, as though they are the perfect solution to his problems. The young man bares his teeth as if to show he means what he says. Hercules can’t tell if it’s a genuine threat, or a challenge to take the patriot up on. He mentally discards the second option. The potential for injury would ruin the fine lines he had so painstakingly sewn in the placket of the army uniforms. Hercules shakes his head, unperturbed. There’s something intriguing about the soldier; but in times of war, there’s something intriguing about everyone. 

“I have no doubt you could, but then who would make the uniforms? Use your head, Pretty Boy.”

The young soldier seems to deflate, shoulders slumping with a sad nod of the head. “I’ll be back another time, then.”

 


	2. They're Aware of it This Time — Just Inebriated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely, the first step to falling in love with someone would be... knowing their name?

 

The place is almost empty, and Laurens had chosen it for that exact purpose. Outside, in the snow, just three streets away, the entire town was admiring the fireworks display put on to commemorate his father. The  _ fallen hero  _ of the Revolution. Laurens scoffs, knocking by another shot before gesturing to the bartender to pour a couple more.

The fireworks provide a suitable backing track to the commotion at the end of the bar. By the time Laurens witnesses the commotion, the taller of the two men has had a beer dumped over his head, and is spewing rapid-fire French at his assailant. His assailant, on the other hand, looks ready to escalate the situation, jaw clenched, body drawn tight as he turns with a huff. Laurens recognizes him almost immediately.  _ Tailor-dude _ is bigger than he remembers.

 

Tailor-dude glares at his soaking wet companion and storms to the bar, presumably looking to replace the liquor he had just so violently dumped on  _ Frenchie’s  _ head. The Frenchman follows his lead, grabbing an arm and yanking, begging in French for Tailor-dude to — what Laurens assumes is — hear him out.

Tailor-dude responses in kind — and since when did Tailor-dude speak French? — and whilst Laurens isn’t fluent, he knows how to translate the  _ ‘go fuck yourself’ _ that leaves Tailor-dude’s lips.  _ Frenchie  _ looks pathetic after that, like he’d been punched in the gut, hair dripping warm beer onto his expensive coat. 

Frenchie leaves, bruised ego in tow, and by the time Laurens turns back to Tailor-dude, the man has vanished. He lifts the shot glass to his lips, part of him mourning the loss of Tailor-dude. 

Or maybe, Laurens is just lonely.

“Over here, Pretty Boy. It's not polite to stare.” The tailor’s tone is warm and easy, like the liquor swirling down his throat right now.  _ Jesus _ , now Laurens is thinking of other things down his throat. His head snaps round to face the tailor, hoping the blooming redness of his cheeks can be blamed on the alcohol. 

“C-can I buy you a drink?” Laurens asks, because you should at least buy them a drink  _ before  _ you take them to bed. His father used to say that, but it mostly implied forcing alcohol down his mother’s throat until she complied.

“Sure, I’ll have—” The tailor leans into Laurens’ side, slipping a hand into the curls and tugging as he gestures to the bartender. Laurens gasps sharply, the sound leaping out his mouth before he has a chance to stop it. Laurens closes his eyes tightly, skin tingling as goosebumps rise, responding dutifully to the tailor’s action. He dips his head, letting his hair tug against the man’s grip and Laurens rests his head on the bartop. His breath is ragged, and he wants more, no matter how much he’d deny it first. 

The hand is gone before Laurens can catch his breath.

When Laurens opens his eyes, Tailor-dude is sipping on some sort of amber-coloured liquor, looking like he’s won the lottery. The smirk on Tailor-Dude’s face tells Laurens that perhaps they share similar intentions.

“Not a fan of fireworks, then?” Tailor-dude says casually.

“Not when they’re based on a lie.”

The tailor raises an eyebrow, “I think they’re based on gunpowder and Chinese science.”

“Whatever.” Laurens doesn’t want to talk about this with someone who’s practically a stranger. He downs another shot, “who was Frenchie?”

“ _ Parle Francais _ ?” 

“A little. I know  _ asshole  _ and  _ go fuck yourself. _ ” Laurens watches Tailor-dude pointedly, “Besides, you’re only asking to see if you can get away with lying to me.”

“Perhaps. Laf —  _ Frenchie — _  is, well, _was_ my boyfriend. I caught him cheating on me. Although, if you hear him tell it, they  _ technically  _ never slept together because—” the tailor rolls his eyes, exaggerating a French accent before continuing, “ _ Xander never stayed the night. _ ”

Laurens grimaces, “What the fuck kinda name is Xander?”

“I dunno, man. I wasn’t at the Christening.” The tailor shrugs, “Besides, you’d probably say the same about Hercules. That’s me, by the way. Hercules Mulligan.” Hercules extends his hand, but before Laurens can take it, extends a bit further, palming at Laurens’ crotch. Laurens snaps upright, pivoting a little to press himself into Hercules’s palm. Hercules definitely gets the memo, turning to pin Laurens between himself and the bartop. “And who are you, Pretty Boy?”

Laurens is dumb. 

He should be at home, not getting felt up by a guy he’s threatened to kill before. He praises his sober judgement for having picked a bar so empty, because the noises he’s making are downright  _ sinful _ , and his pants are  _ much _ tighter than they were a second ago. He buries his face in Hercules's neck, muffling his moans. Laurens can’t concentrate with that hand in his hair, sweat beading across his forehead, and he’s gonna cum in his pants if Hercules doesn’t—

“ _ Stop _ .”

“I’m sorry.” The hands leave as soon as they had appeared, replaced by a long series of apologies, only half of which are full sentences. “Seriously, Pretty Boy, I thought you were into it. If you like girls or something… I’m sorry I misread… I’m sorry.”

Laurens’ mouth is too dry to respond, panting breaths slowing only to throw back another shot. “John,” he replies, though his voice cracks, “My name is John Mercer, I’m a captain in the Continental Army, and—”

Hercules’s jaw drops, “—and the entire city is having a memorial for your father right now. The general, he’s a Mercer, right?”

“Yeah.”

When John offers nothing else, Hercules chalks it up to mourning. He pats himself down, searching for something, trying to remember where he put it. He pulls out a piece of card and scribbles something on the back, handing it to Laurens.

“NYU?” Laurens reads the card aloud, noting the address.

“I wanted to pay my way, and I’m too broke for med school,” Hercules laughs, “journalism major, part-time, of course; how else would I run the store?” Hercules slips away from the barstool, pulling his coat around him and tugging his beanie down over his ears.

Laurens grips at a lapel with a tight fist, pulling Hercules towards him, “We could go back to your store a—”

“Not tonight; we’ve both had too much to drink, I reckon.” Hercules holds a hand up to Laurens’ chest, “but my number’s on the back, so maybe some other time.” 

“Sure, some other time.” Laurens tries not to seem disappointed as he holds the card up, tries not to let his brain ruminate on the obvious pity in Hercules’s rejection. 

“Alright, then.” Hercules slaps the bartop, “See you around, John Mercer.”

John winces, and Hercules catches it immediately. 

“I prefer Laurens.”

“Right,” Hercules turns his face upward, as though playing with the name in his mind. The moment he nods is when he’s made his decision. “See you around, Laurens.”

  
  



	3. Their First Date Goes Down in Flames; And Laurens Gets Down on His Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The key to the perfect first date would be... actually showing up.

 

“You stood me up, you son of a bitch!”

Laurens doesn’t seem at all intimidated by Herc’s anger. “You’re super hot when you’re mad.” Laurens licks his lips, “Come inside so I can suck your dick.”

“You’re lucky I don’t snap your neck,” Hercules huffs, still stomping into Laurens’ townhouse. “Why didn’t you call if you weren’t gonna show?”

“National security.” Laurens shuts the door, and when Hercules turns to face him, he realises the reason for the soldier’s absence. There’s a sling supporting Laurens’ left arm, and Hercules suddenly regrets his outburst.

 

Laurens grabs Hercules’s hand, leading him up the stairs and to the bedroom, speaking quickly all the way. “I got shot in the back, literally, not metaphorically. The bullet bounced around a bit and shattered my collarbone. I’m good now, though.” Laurens slams the bedroom door, all but shoving Herc onto the bed. “Now, let me suck you off so I can feel even _better_.” He purrs.

 

And Hercules can’t get out of his jeans fast enough. “Colour?”

“Green all day.”

“Good,” Hercules growls, fisting a hand in Laurens’ hair, and dragging him to his knees, “Now behave yourself.”

 


	4. The First Time Laurens Says "I Love You", It's With a Mouthful of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The single key to any longstanding relationship would definitely be communication.  
> Communication, and not dying.

 

Hercules kicks his front door shut, his weary arms too exhausted to lift any higher than their place at his side, weighted by groceries that he somehow mustered up the energy — and funds — to buy. It’s at times like this that Hercules remembers how much easier it was when Lafayette was paying for everything. Hercules would crave the huskiness of Laf’s voice when he was sleepy and sore from that day’s skirmish, how he would slip into French as he spoke about how much he missed his boyfriend’s mouth, and Hercules would stroke himself to images the deep, sultry voice provided.

That was until Hercules found out (from Burr of all people! No wonder Lafayette hated Aaron) that the boyfriend that Lafayette was referring to, could have very well meant Xander. Hercules and Lafayette’s relationship was a flaming pile of wreckage within _hours_ of that fact coming to light, and Hercules didn’t do much to avert the conflict. He packed his stuff and moved out of Laf’s townhouse immediately, picking up extra shifts at the Tailory to make up for the loss of income.

From what Hercules had heard through the grapevine, Lafayette wasn’t too broken up about it all. The Frenchman had requested a transfer, probably to get away from the rumour mill stirring about just how much he — and the French — was favoured by Washington. Still, on some nights, Hercules would, for far too long, stare at his phone, thumb hovering over Laf’s number. Having a rich boyfriend did have its perks, but Hercules was glad to be _friends_ with Laurens. Pretty Boy didn't sleep around. And if he did, at least he was discreet about it. The only person Lafayette had ever been able to keep a secret from was Hercules.

Hercules switches on the light, as though it will reveal the secrets of the universe. Laurens is usually here whenever Hercules gets home, no matter the hour, having taken to breaking in as a courtesy. Hercules calls it a courtesy because the only evidence of Laurens’ presence is money on the dresser, and how spotless the apartment is whenever Hercules is finally able to pull himself away from the Tailory.

The first time Hercules had come home to Laurens — after almost taking Pretty Boy’s head off with a baseball bat — he’d offered Laurens a spare key, but Laurens seemed adamant that that was unnecessary. Hercules asked about the cash that seemed to find its way into his dresser, but Laurens shook his head at that as well.  


_“I can’t take your money, Laurens.” Hercules had stated. “And I don’t need charity.”_

_“It’s my father’s money. His war pension.” Laurens had snarled back, “You deserve it, I don’t need it, and I don’t fucking want it.”_   


Hercules had learnt by then, that there was no arguing when it came to Laurens’ father. No talk of forgiveness or remorse. The man was dead, and whilst the revolutionaries mourned, Laurens felt no loss. And that was okay. On the anniversary, Hercules makes a habit to take Laurens out: on a walk, to a restaurant, to a bar, to the park, the beach, to bed. Anything to distract the soldier’s brain from the scars that occupy his back. They always seem to ache a little more in January.  
“Laurens? Are you here?” Hercules exhaled, the faint smell of disinfectant making it clear to him that at the very least, Laurens had been there. “If you are, remind me to pack the groceries in the morning..! I’m going to bed.”

“Herc..?” Laurens’ voice is garbled and fraught, even in the silence of the apartment, “ _Please_ _—_ ”

Something in Laurens’ subdued tone is screaming at Hercules to _go_. And he does, dropping the grocery bags he’s carrying, and following the source of Laurens’ plea.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—” Laurens wheezes, “f-fucking… I fucked up. Bad.” The sentences are punctuated by a series of sharp coughs, rapidly punching their path through Laurens’ airways. The soldier looks small, slumped against the wall and curled in on himself.

“How, John?” Hercules is kneeling by Laurens’ side in a second, and it’s readily apparent that Laurens isn’t stricken with the flu. His hands are clutching firmly at his side, blood rapidly seeping through his fingers.

Hercules presses his hands hard over where Laurens’ cover the wound. Laurens grunts, hunching over even more, and Hercules can feel how cold his fingers are. Laurens doesn’t answer the question, too busy struggling his way through the process of breathing. “I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“No.” Laurens lets his head loll to the side, just far enough that when he spits, he won’t cover Herc’s shirt with his blood. “Can’t. Court-martial.” Laurens tries to explain, but “duel.” is all that is said.

“Why the hell would you..!” Hercules exhales. Now is not the time to get angry at Laurens. The damage is already done, and seeping into Hercules’ blue carpet. “This isn’t a gunshot wound.”

“Stabbed.”

“ _In a duel_?”

Laurens’ stare is blank, eyes wide and pupils dilated. He nods feverishly, **“I love you, Herc—”** A coughing fit overtakes him, and Hercules recoils violently as blood — Laurens’ blood — splatters across both their faces. He doesn’t have time to be disgusted.

“I can fix this, okay? I’ll be right back, I promise.” Hercules runs to his bedroom, shuffling through the cabinets until he finds a towel, his sewing kit and some bandages. On his way back, he yanks a bottle of rum from the kitchen, placing it by Laurens’ side. “This is going to sting a bit,” he warns. Laurens just throws a lop-sided smile up in response. Until Hercules starts pouring. Laurens’ expression tightens, every muscle seizing up in response to the burning of the alcohol over his wound. Hercules presses a towel over the gaping wound, using it as a glove as he pushes the - thankfully - clean edges together. “You ready?”

Laurens twitches, and Hercules can only assume it’s a yes as he threads the needle and readies himself.

It is not an experience Hercules wishes to repeat.

 

* * *

 

When Laurens comes to, it’s a cold reception.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” The question is accompanied by a glass of water being shoved in his direction. Laurens chugs it, thankful for the instant relief to his parchedness. Hercules continues: “I called Lafayette. Why the fuck would you challenge the _hero of two worlds_ to a duel?”

“Why’d you call him?” Laurens frowns as he sits up, bracing himself against the wall when he decides that the effort isn’t worth the pain. “I thought you were over him.”

“I am over him,” Hercules says, lacing his hands into Laurens’ hair. Laurens knows it’s a tactic to distract him, but the comfort is so welcome, he melts into the touch regardless. “But you said no hospital, and he’s the only other soldier I know.” Hercules shakes his head disapprovingly, even as he leans against the wall next to Laurens, trying his best to ignore the pool of copper that they’re sitting in — a massive asymmetrical dried-blood patch in a sea of blue carpet. “I was worried. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Laurens sighs contently, leaning his head against Hercules’s shoulder before answering. “I didn’t think he’d stab me.”

“There is a reason Washington gave Lafayette a command! He is ruthless in the pursuit of victory. I believe in your abilities, but Laf has something to prove; there’s _no way_ he would have let you win.” Hercules’ voice wavers in pitch, and he suddenly wishes that he had a glass of his own, something to drown out the emotion that threatens to betray him. “Did you think you were just gonna shoot at each other and go home?”

To be honest, that is _exactly_ what Laurens had been thinking, as dumb as it sounds now.

“He insulted you, Hercules! I was…” Laurens’ cheeks dust pink as he realises what he’s saying. It’s too late to take it back now.

“You were what?”

“I was defending your honour.”

Hercules bursts into laughter, “I am not a maiden in need of defending.”

“I know,” Laurens frowns, pressing a palm over his stitches, “but I meant what I said.”

Hercules takes to absent-mindedly stroking Laurens’ hair. “I kept it under wraps; Laf doesn’t want a demotion, so you don’t need to worry about the court-martial.”

“About being in love with you, I mean.”

 

The hand in his hair stills, and Laurens feels a pressure in his chest, completely unrelated to the collapsed lung.

“Yeah…” Hercules exhales out of his nose as he searches for the words. “You love me enough to bleed out on my floor. What if I’d gone out? What if I’d taken Laf up on his offer for drinks? What if I’d worked a different shift? What if…”  
Hercules pushes himself off the floor, fingers digging into the now stiff, coarse fibres of the carpet beneath him. He looks down at Laurens, eyes burning with fury and a longing ache and something else entirely.  
“You love me, yet you’re willing to have me find your _corpse_ in my living room?” Laurens opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off but Herc’s voice. “Your fucking corpse! I had to stitch you back together while you choked on your own blood!’  
Hercules takes a break to level out his breathing, and Laurens wants to interject, to make a lighthearted joke about how he was conscious for every one of Hercules’s crooked stitches, and that the shoddy needlework will no doubt leave a nasty scar, but for some reason, the time doesn’t seem appropriate. “ _Jesus,_ and I know you don’t care if you live or die, but don’t you dare tell me you love me while you do it!”

“I didn’t think it was that bad, okay?”

“You couldn’t _breathe_!” Hercules is damn near hyperventilating now, legs working vigorously into the floor when he paces. “I was helpless! I thought you were gonna die, John. I was going to watch you die. Don’t tell me you love me, if you’re forcing me to watch you die. Please, John—”

Laurens swallows the lump in his throat, now without the aid of any water. Hercules only calls Laurens by first name when he’s serious about something, and Laurens is sure of that every time, even if Hercules hasn’t noticed it yet.

“Godammit I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hat—” Hercules caves in on himself then, limbs folding beneath him as he sobs, wretched cries ripping through his chest. Hercules points an accusatory finger at Laurens, but whatever words were to follow are smothered by the bawl of grief that escapes him. “You're so fucking _selfish_ ,” he mumbles.

Laurens crawls over to Hercules, still not trusting himself to stand. It isn't until he's engulfed Hercules in a hug that he speaks. “I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking.”

Laurens grunts and shifts in his position, relieving the pressure of Herc's knee digging into his stitches.

“About the duel, or about me?” Hercules asks, voice hollow and strained. His eyes water, shielded in the crook of his elbow, from Laurens’ vision.

“Lafayette just made me so angry. I had to protect you. I didn’t want to kill him, okay? I know you still... I know he meant… means a lot to you. But you mean a lot to me.”

“You’re lucky I care about you.” Hercules shakes his head, eyes still blurry with tears. He forces himself out of Laurens’ embrace, and moves to stand on shaky limbs. “I took some time off work. I— I also called General Greene. You’re not scheduled for another skirmish till your _malaria_ subsides. I’m not letting you go.”

Laurens protests, “That’s not fair. Herc—”

“If you can fight me without tearing out those stitches, I’ll let you go.” Hercules’s voice is firm, but the twinkle in his eyes shows Laurens that it’s all in good fun. Hercules smiles, bending to pick up the empty glass. “Actually, if you can _stand up_ by yourself, I’ll let you go.”

Laurens focuses on the ceiling, worrying his bottom lip, before letting himself fall back onto the carpet, half in a sulk, half in surrender.

Hercules folds his arms across his chest. “That’s what I thought.”

 


	5. The First Time Hercules Goes Behind John's Back, it Doesn't End Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting your ex is a mistake. No exceptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything said in French is translated right after; no need for google translate.  
> Again, {{curly brackets}} are spoken French.

 

“I miss you, Hercules.” Lafayette is leaning against the kitchen counter, and Hercules is hesitant to say it back. Everything in this house (which, with Herc’s salary, may as well be a country manor) feels foreign and oppressive. He used to live here, yes, but the entire structure now seems designed to swallow him up, spit him out, and grind his bones to dust. It’s never been more apparent that Lafayette is a  _ Marquis _ , a title which Hercules mispronounced until their fourth date  — the one where Laf got drunk and smashed a Martini glass whilst Hercules apologised profusely to the bar staff before manhandling the Marquis into an Uber — and that Hercules no longer fits into this lavish lifestyle.

“I—” Hercules takes a sip of the water he’d accepted upon entry. “Y-you hurt me a lot.” He chooses to say. Because if Laf can vulnerable, so can he. There’s something to be said about witnessing your boyfriend being sucked off by a stranger, but Hercules doesn’t know what it is yet. He knows the words are hidden somewhere in the tenderness of Laf’s hands on  _ Xander _ ’s head, or the soft French that tumbled from his mouth, or the fondness in his eyes even while he confessed to the infidelity.

“I know,” Lafayette admits, suddenly so much closer than he was before. Hercules had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but there’s just something about Laf’s voice that makes him weak in the knees. “I’m sorry.” Lafayette’s fingers run along Hercules’ cheek, lovingly, longingly, but disappear before Hercules can do anything he regrets.

“Di-did you love him?” Hercules asks, knowing he doesn’t particularly want an answer, “Xander, did you love him?”

“Oui, yes, I did.” 

For some reason, the answer doesn’t make Hercules feel any better. Lafayette clasps his hands over Herc’s, stilling them where they shake. “I needed…” Lafayette trails off, removing his hands wherein Herc’s are nestled. Apparently, opening a bottle of wine is more pressing than finishing the sentence. The cravat around Laf’s neck is tight, but Hercules doesn’t need to be a genius to see the top half of several all-too-obvious hickeys poking out beneath his collar, identical in shade to the red wine now occupying his glass. “I am going back to France, mon amour.” Lafayette inhales the wine, swallowing quickly. He finishes the glass, and is pouring another before Hercules starts his sentence.

“But you love the…” Hercules pauses to rephrase, “you love America.”

“Yes, but I do not like what she comes with.” Unconsciously or not, Lafayette tugs up his cravat, hiding the love-bites from view.

“Oh, was Xander not good enough for you?”

“ _ Mon Amour _ ,” Laf’s eyes are suddenly cold, displeased with how this situation is going, {{“This is not about him. This is about what we have become.”}}

“In  _ English _ , Laf.”

Laf looks small, the same way he did with beer soaking into his hair. He pulls away from Hercules, busying himself with anything he can find on the other side of the counter. He switches to English anyway. “I know you understand me, Hercules.”

“Yes, but I’m not fluent. You know I can’t respond in French.” Hercules crosses his arms. The words aren’t harsh, but they both know it isn’t about the words.

“But you always made the effort!” And  _ my god _ , it had meant the world to Lafayette. Maybe he should have made that clearer, instead of stumbling into sexual congress with a different French tongue.

“Well, I’m done being the  _ only one  _ making the effort, Lafayette!”

“Désolé, c’est ma faute, j’aurais dû y penser…” Laf bites his lip and shakes his head, dismissing whatever thought was circling. He’s nervous; Hercules can see it in the way Lafayette’s hands shake, how he translates this thought process aloud. “It’s my fault, I should have to think…”

“Thank you for the water.” Hercules rolls his eyes, patience wearing thin. “But I have to go to work.”

“Attends un peu.” Laf grabs onto Herc’s wrist, “S'il vous plaît, mon amour… wait a bit. Please.”

“I have to go to work, Lafayette.”

“Hold on.” Lafayette tightens his grip.

“I know you don’t understand the concept, but some of us have to work for a living.”

“I’ll give you the money.”

“I don’t want your money.” Hercules glares at Lafayette, “We can’t all rely on handouts.”

Laf releases Hercules, abandoning this trainwreck of a reconciliation, “I work, Hercules! I secure this nation from the forces that threaten its existence! You stab cloth with a needle and thread!”

“See!” Hercules stabs an accusatory finger into Laf’s chest, “This is what I’m talking about. You have more money than me, yes, and that’s fine, you’re a fucking Marquis. But you devalue my work, you sleep around, y—”

“Non! A few times with Xander, that is it.” Even so, Lafayette hesitates, picking his next words carefully. Laf would beg, on his hands and knees, if his noble heritage didn’t so repel the idea. “Please, come back to me.”

“Let me finish.” Hercules shouldn’t have come here. “You  _ stabbed  _ Laurens—”

“I said I was sorry for that.”

“I had to stitch him up. He almost bled to death in my living room.”

Laf throws his body forward, as if to demonstrate the exact positioning of the bullet still in his shoulder. “He shot me!”

“By accident!” Hercules yells. Laurens’ exact words had been: ‘ _ I tried to throw away my shot, but Frenchie’s a tall-ass motherfucker.’  _ Hercules grabs at the cravat, dragging Lafayette down to eye level. “You missed, but you didn’t have to stab him,” he snarls.

“I could not lose my honour.”

“So I had to lose my…!”

“Ton amour..?” Lafayette pulls away, sinking into the barstool. “Please, Hercules. Come home with me.”

“New York is my home; I’m sorry.”

Lafayette breaks down at that, head bowed, openly weeping into the marble countertop. 

“Laf?” Hercules surrenders, crossing the room to rub soothing circles on Lafayette’s back. “When do you leave?”

“Dans quatre…” Lafayette pauses, making eye contact with Hercules, “In four days. L-let me say goodbye properly.”

Hercules raises an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

Lafayette moves away, eyes darkening, and Hercules cannot determine exactly why. “I do not have much time left,  _ Mon—  _ Hercules. I am the hero of two worlds, and the villain of my own.” Lafayette tugs on his cravat and frowns, as though searching for the right words, “I can tell you everything tomorrow, away from here. I know you hate this house now. We can go upstate for the weekend—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Laf.” 

“Tolerate my company, then. Think of it as a break from your usual obligations; a…” Translating is getting exhausting, but still, Lafayette does it, if only to please Hercules. Laf huffs, settling for the French word when the English refuses to appear in his thoughts, “ _ vacance.  _ Just… if that is something you want, meet me in the cafe on 3rd. Tomorrow, 11 O’Clock. If you do not show up, I will understand and respect your decision. _ ”  _

Hercules nods, “I’m late for work.” He grabs his coat and heads for the door.

 

* * *

 

Laurens pounces on the idea, not five seconds after it leaves Herc’s mouth. “That’s a terrible idea. Like, horrible. Très bad.”

Hercules doesn’t bother to correct Laurens’ horrific pronunciation. Hercules is sprawled out on the cushy turquoise carpeting, eyes closed, making the closest thing to snow angels in its fibres. “Are you saying that because he’s my ex, or because you don’t like him?”

“Can’t it be both?” Laurens takes a swig of the beer bottle in his hand, marvelling at how adorable Hercules is when he isn’t bearing the weight of the world and an eighty-hour work-week on his shoulders. 

“Laurens… I think I’m gonna go. It’s just for a weekend, anyway.” Hercules raises his head to watch Laurens carefully. Laurens shrugs, hiding his expression behind the cool condensation of the bottle. He’s wearing Hercules’ blue tee-shirt which looks more like a house-dress against his tanned skin, and Hercules wishes he could see more of that skin. “Just to see if he’s okay. He looked so… off.”

“No offense, but I think that comes with the territory of being a knife-wielding maniac; matter of fact, it’s probably in the handbook.” Laurens meets Herc’s gaze, crawling over to where the carpet angels lay, “He’s scared that you won’t show, that you might be over-over him.” He crosses his legs, settling in next to Herc’s hip.

“I am over-over him,” Hercules sighs, laying an  _ ever-so-casual _ hand on the warm flesh of Laurens’ bare thigh. The subtle message that follows, the fingers inching towards his groin, tell Laurens the action is no accident. “But it’s a holiday in the countryside, and school has been kicking my ass. Maybe some time away is just what I need.”

Laurens punches down the flames of jealousy that rise in his chest. “If you want some time away, I can take you to South Carolina; you can come up to the  _ Laurens _ estate, maybe meet my family..?”

Hercules smiles, “you’re jealous, Pretty Boy.”   
It’s a statement, not prying, not inquisitive, not accusatory.

“I am, yeah.” Laurens admits, putting the beer down so he can gesture with his hands, “I mean, he’s  **French** _. _ That’s like the most romantic kind of nationality there is.”

“Maybe.” The hand on Laurens’ thigh shifts an inch higher, and Laurens is in awe of how Hercules keeps his voice level. “But I’m hardly impressed by his grand, empty gestures.” As if to articulate what he means, Hercules flips onto his stomach, content to land with his head half in Laurens’ lap. He holds himself up, strong hands braced against Laurens’ thighs.   
“I’m only blown away by consistency. By the day-to-day. By you.”

Laurens blushes, bright red spreading across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears, and down his neck until it disappears under the blue t-shirt. Hercules leaves no room for misinterpretation, he definitely wants to see just how far it disappears.

“Laurens,  _ mon chéri _ .” Hercules sits up, locking eyes with Laurens, “I love you.”

“Show me.” Laurens raises his arms over his head and yanks the shirt off, beer long forgotten. He launches himself against Hercules’s chest, throwing them both backwards. Hercules has the wind knocked out of him, but when Laurens rolls his hips forward, Hercules gasps softly, air returning to his lungs. Laurens slinks into Hercules’ lap, leaning in to brush his lips against Herc’s neck. In the closeness, Laurens can feel Herc’s heartbeat through his chest, even though the tailor is still. He lets his tongue dance across the shell of Herc’s ear, nipping at the lobe. His breath dances against Hercules’ skin, a ghost of its own expectation. “Show me just how much you love me.” 

The stitches across Laurens’ ribcage prevent him from being fucked into the mattress like he wants, but Hercules has other plans.

 

Laurens’ mouth splays open as orgasm rushes through him. His fingers clench into the bedsheets, toes curling with every short puff of air that escapes his mouth. Laurens gulps in desperate, heady breaths, hips darting forward in a lost rhythm, thrusting wildly into Herc’s willing throat as he comes down. Hercules’ hands reach for Laurens’ skin, pulling him in. His palm presses into the soldier’s back: tough, scarred skin, raised and sunken, and all irregular. This time, Laurens doesn’t evade the expression of affection, he let Hercules run calloused fingers across his scars, exploring the ridges and valleys in his skin. Laurens softens, sighing contently as he sinks into Hercules’ lap. 

For whatever reason, the keloid running parallel to the spine seems to jog Herc’s memory. 

“Wait.” The fingers pause in their exploration. Hercules had always been quite perceptive. “Why is my carpet a different colour?”

Laurens plays dumb, and it’s not much of a feat. “Huh?”

“You heard me. It’s turquoise. It was blue. I’m sure of it, because you bled all over it and made it purple.”

“Oh,” Laurens purses his lips. If he were a betting man, he definitely would have put money on Herc not noticing until Easter. Actually, Laurens had hoped Hercules wouldn’t notice at all. It had taken hours to find that shade of turquoise, and Laurens had paid through the nose it get it down before Hercules finished class. Anything to not be reminded of his near-death encounter. “I had it re-carpeted.”

“I was only gone a couple of hours.”

“What can I say?” Laurens says with a shrug, “I’m resourceful.”

Hercules presses a kiss to Laurens’ forehead. “Course you are, Pretty Boy.”

 

* * *

 

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Laurens calls from the kitchen. Whatever he’s cooking, he hasn’t let Hercules taste it. But the house smells like peppermint, so for all intents and purposes, Hercules best guess is that he’s being treated to _toothpaste_ _ à la Laurens.  _

“I know,” Hercules spares a glance to the soldier in front of the stove as he tugs on his gloves. Maybe there’s a tiny pep in his step, but Hercules would swear that to was only due to having to work a half-day, rather than the idea of being whisked away on an expensive countryside excursion with his French ex-boyfriend. “Your exact words were horrible, terrible, and…” Hercules makes a point to pronounce the French perfectly: “ _ Très  _ bad.” 

“Those weren’t my exact words.” Is Laurens’ only protest. He isn’t here to hold Hercules hostage. If Hercules wants to meet _Frenchie_ — the knife-wielding maniac and cheating motherfucker — then he’s allowed to. Laurens smiles sweetly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Thank you,” Hercules tiptoes closer to Laurens, pressing a strategic kiss on Laurens’ cheek as he tries to peek at whatever is making his house smell of chewing gum. And Jesus Christ, whatever it is _ , it’s purple.  _ Laurens, who sees through the ploy immediately, shakes his head, although he doesn’t refuse the kiss.

“Go have fun! Tell Frenchie I said hi.”

“So he can stab you again?” Hercules rolls his eyes as he turns away, checking to make sure he has his phone before he walks out the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He says with finality.

And Laurens tries not to imagine what that implies as the door slams shut.

 

* * *

Hercules stands when Lafayette enters, not out of respect for the frankly formidable man, but to reciprocate the bear hug that Laf offers. The  _ hero of two worlds _ looks utterly destroyed: tottering forwards like every bone weighs a ton, heavy bags under his eyes which weigh more, shivering from the snow outside. Without his army fatigues or a coat, the constellation of hickeys which line Laf’s throat are even more prominent than they were yesterday, though now they look more like bruises from the throes of battle. His hair is damp, some snow semi-melted and coating the strands of his hair.

“Lafayette…” Hercules breathes, “what’s wrong?”

{{“I lost. He is furious.”}}

“Who’s furious?”

“Non, non, non.” Laf’s eyes are bloodshot and watering, and Hercules has to check if his ex-boyfriend is drunk. 

“Have you been drinking?”

It’s almost as though Lafayette hasn’t heard the question. His eyes light up with a frenetic, uneasy enthusiasm. {{“Hercules! I did not think you would come! We must go at once!”}} Lafayette’s grip spans Hercules’ wrist immediately, tight and unyielding.

“No, Lafayette.” Hercules yanks his arm away from Laf and back to his side. “Tell me what’s going on first.”

{{“I will tell you later! Come, please, it isn’t safe!”}}

“In  _ English,  _ Lafayette!”

Lafayette clenches his jaw and refuses. The French language which leaves his lips is a quiet act of rebellion. “ Je ne peux pas te dire ici .” 

“Well, where can you tell me? Because I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what, why, when, and how.”

Lafayette bristles at that, puffing out his chest, but says nothing. This feels weird, and Hercules starts planning his escape route. Herc glances at the door, now realizing that Lafayette has made himself an obstacle, and the space between them is narrower than he remembers.  The soft hand is grazing Herc’s cheek again, but Hercules doesn’t melt, and Laf’s lips are on his before he can stop it.   
  


“Mphf!” Hercules vocalizes, surprise causing him to knock over the cookies on the counter he’s pressed against. Lafayette breaks the kiss for a second, deciding instead, that his attention is better spent on Herc’s neck. “Laf, stop it.”

Hercules attempts to shake out of the space, arms trapped between Lafayette’s body and his own. He shoves, but Lafayette is immovable, regarding Hercules’ disapproval as a temporary inconvenience. He continues sucking, letting his teeth graze the sensitive skin of Hercules’ neck. Hercules jerks away — as much as he can — “Lafayette!” kicking out, hoping to catch a kneecap, or the instep, or anything else that will trigger his release. “Get off me, Laf—” His words are smothered by Lafayette’s lips once again, and Hercules feels guilt well up in his chest. He should have listened to Laurens. Hercules tries to leverage his position against the counter, propelling himself forwards hips first, in hopes that it knocks them both off-balance.   
  


It works, with Lafayette tripping over his own feet before crashing to the floor. Hercules watches him silently, too shocked to speak. On the other hand, Lafayette’s words are slow, deliberate, and remorseless. But at least they are in English. 

“I wanted you to know how it feels,” is all Lafayette says in his defence before ducking into the freezing night air.

Hercules stumbles home, confused and alone.

 

* * *

 

“Uh…” Laurens looks at his watch with a furrow in his brow, “You’re back early. I’m thinking it didn’t go well..?” Laurens shuts the door behind him, frowning when the only reply is a shallow thud, followed by blaring and animated jibberish. How many languages can Hercules speak? Then again, if his overwhelming silence is anything to go off of, English is not currently one of them.

Later, when Hercules is still silently staring at the TV, gathering no real meaning from what Laurens would subsequently discover was a Dutch shopping channel, Laurens doesn’t disturb him. He piles blankets onto the catatonic heap that is Hercules Mulligan, and waits patiently for the exhaustion to subside. But it doesn’t. With each passing day, Hercules seems to become one with the couch, missing both work and classes.

 

“Hercules, babe,” Laurens says softly, crouching in front of the couch, between Hercules and the TV. Hercules shrinks in at that, the only indication that he is conscious. “It’s been four days. You need to eat. I made you peanut butter and jelly if yo—”

“I’m allergic to peanuts.” Herc’s voice is croaky, rusty from disuse. 

Laurens runs his hands through his hair. Why doesn’t he know that? He should know that. “But you buy so much peanut butter?”

“You seem to like it,” Hercules murmurs, words almost drowned out by the Dutch blasting from the TV speakers. “And I like making you happy.” 

The words are simple, but Laurens feels a sense of warmth at them. He’d definitely hug Hercules right now if the prospect wouldn’t potentially provoke a fistfight.

“C’mon, this isn’t healthy.” Laurens attempts to cajole, “You gotta get up.”

“I don’t want you here.” The words are heavy and slow, like an afterthought trailing behind Herc’s facial expressions. “I want you out of my apartment.”

“I know you wanted to go with him,” Laurens says calmly, his attempt at de-escalating the situation. He wobbles a little, leaning forward to support himself with palms flat on the edge of the sofa. Standing up would be too much of a hassle. “But I know you know that nothing good could have come of this reconciliation, and if you went back, he’d never respect you.”

“He kissed me,” Hercules states. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but shakes his head instead. He can’t articulate what he feels right now. Something somewhere between soiled and perverse and silent. Hercules can’t help but wonder if this is the feeling Lafayette was referring to.

“Okay… And that’s why you’ve cocooned yourself in blankets..?” Laurens is more confused now than a second ago, “I don’t understand.”

“He crossed a line, and I’m…” The silence is only two seconds long, but Laurens knows there’s more to the story that Hercules is telling him. He won’t push, though. He knows better than that. “I’m done. He leaves in two days, so you don’t have to worry about him anymore. I-I should have listened to you.”

“It’s probably for the best.” Laurens isn’t the type to say  _ I told you so.  _ “I love you, Hercules. I really do.” 

“I’m tired, John. So if you love me, then please,” Hercules implores, “just leave me the fuck alone.”

  
  
  



	6. The Last Time Herc Sees Laurens in Person, He Doesn’t Know it'll be the Last Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in a decade.  
> Can the soldier turned secret service agent and the tailor turned award-winning journalist still find common ground?

 

Laurens bites his tongue, suddenly all too conscious of his empty, swinging hands. He’s never been this nervous before, except around his father. For the past decade and a half, he had been the one with the gun, the one with the badge, the one with the power. But standing in front of this condo door makes him want to run away like a frightened schoolboy.

“Laurens.” Hercules opens the door with a wide smile, gesturing for Laurens to come inside. John shuffles in, feet stuttering across familiar floorboards.

“You know email exists now, right?” Laurens laughs nervously, testing the waters, hoping Hercules doesn’t bring up the fact that it’s been over a decade since they last saw each other. “You didn’t have to call me all the way over here for a recording.” He hears the door close behind him, and waits for Hercules’ denial. But all he hears is footsteps following him to the living room.

“I know.” Hercules replies, and John can hear the smile on the journalist's face. Laurens pivots, all but crashing into him. Hercules is somehow taller than he remembers, and Laurens tries with everything in him not to blush. Mulligan searches Laurens’ expression. “I wanted to see you,” Hercules’s admission rings heavy as his hand reaches up to frame Laurens’ face, barely having a chance to touch flesh before it snaps back to Hercules’s side at a shame-filled pace.

“Well,” Laurens says slowly, “here I am.” he stretches his arms out as if to present himself, committing to the jazz hands as a _voila_ motion.

Hercules swallows, hard. “Here you are.” Hercules steps around Laurens, taking the lead into the living room, and sinking onto the couch. “Where’s this recording, then?”

“Right here,” Laurens turns the corner with flash drive already in hand, having taken the time to dig through his pockets and leave tiny trails of lint on Hercules’ floor. “What are you going to use it for?”

“It’s Jefferson threatening you. I’m going to make sure he loses the election.” Hercules doesn’t look up as he speaks, too busy with his first draft to note the change in Laurens’ demeanour.

“It needs to be edited,” Laurens says urgently as he crashes down, a disaster of limbs, next to Hercules Mulligan.

“I can’t do that. You’re putting me in defamation territory.” Hercules continues stabbing at the keys, typing in a way that makes Laurens wince on behalf of the keyboard.

“Hercules.”

Laurens’ tone is what makes Hercules pause. He puts the laptop on the coffee table and turns to the Secret Service Agent who should definitely not be in his apartment.

“ _Laurens_.”

“Jefferson mentions my _father_.”

“I’ll edit it out.” Hercules nods assuringly, changing his tune. “Play it for me.”

Laurens handles a laptop far more gingerly than Hercules does. When the recording plays, it’s nearly damning. It’s audible if not slightly muffled from where Laurens had concealed it. Laurens’ voice is the first one heard.

  
_“Did you make him sleep with you? Did you rape him?”_

_“I am not Washington. I am not a rapist. I would never-- Y’know, you ought to watch your mouth before I get some of your colleagues to escort your bloodied body out of here. I’ve had infinite patience with your gibberish this evening.”_

_“In that case, how many times did you use this office to cheat on your husband, Thomas? The same husband I took a fucking bullet for!”_

_“How dare you!”_

_“You looking to add physical assault to your repertoire? It’s only a couple months until Election Day. And I’ll have evidence. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”_

 

Hercules pauses the tape, “Did Jefferson hit you?”

“No.” Laurens says. If Hercules expects more, it doesn’t come.

“Laurens, what was that sound? I need to know.”

“I wouldn’t let him hit me. If he had he’d be in the ground.”

“John,”

“He didn’t hit me.” Laurens reaches over and stabs at the ‘play’ button, glaring at Hercules all the while. Herc turns away, watching the screen. He knows when to leave an issue alone.

 

_“No one would believe you anyway; your father was a reprehensible man, and so are you.”_

Jefferson’s voice almost bounces off the apartment walls. Hercules is surprised Laurens doesn't just snap right then. They'd talked about it, maybe a handful of times, always after Laurens had gotten so drunk he couldn't remember his own name. When the name _Mercer_ began to fester beneath his tongue, just so he could spit the venom of his parentage.

Hercules and Laurens never had sex then. Only fought, fists crashing into faces. Then fucked, teeth digging into salty skin. Hercules doesn’t like to think of those times; the times when he kisses the taste of copper from Laurens’ mouth, the same mouth moaning all manner of filthy things, begging to be slapped and choked and bitten and punched hard enough to break something. Like bruised ribs would fix a broken home.

 

_“Like you haven’t done far worse. Just like you stripped Washington’s name from every building, I will ensure that men like you have no legacy. You didn’t even fight in the War, you’re just using Washington’s words to stymie my career. So what else did you inherit from the Revolutionary Hero?”_

_“I’ll destroy you. You’ll never find work on this continent when I’m through with you.”_

_“You can’t intimidate me, Thomas.”_

_“Go on, if you’re gonna fucking shoot me, then have at it. See how far it gets you.”_

 

There’s a pause and what sounds like the contact of skin on skin. Hercules looks at Laurens for confirmation, but the agent just looks away, shoulders sinking in shame. Jefferson’s voice is heard again, loud and mocking.

Hercules wonders if the tone is a trigger, if Laurens’ father had ever taken that tone whilst bringing leather down on his son's bloody back.

 

_“Y’know what? Because you’ve been of such valued service, I won’t even nullify your credentials. You can keep your medal during your new civilian activities, Mister Laurens.”_

_“It’s Lieutenant Colonel. I served in three different wars under two different presidents. I earned my rank. Unlike you, Mister President.”_

_“In fact, let me get Sally to escort you.”_

_“It’s fine. I know my way out.”_

_“One more thing, Mister Laurens. If you ever threaten me like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”_

 

“Laurens, this is...” Hercules glances away from the screen to see Laurens coursing his hands through his hair so roughly that Herc is scared he’ll pull it out. “John, what’s the matter?”

“I sacrificed my career for this, and he’s still going to get away with everything.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Hercules says firmly.

“You don’t understand, you _can’t_. He’s the president, he’s untouchable.” Laurens is two seconds away from spiralling, and Herc has to rein this in before that happens.

“Washington went down.”

“For _one_ count of each, and only because of those pictures. Without Alex’s... he would have gotten away with it.”

“I published those as well. I can protect you.”

“We both know Washington should’ve been in jail for life. He got off easy, by his own hand… He deserved what my father got.”

“Did Washington ever..?” Hercules looks hesitant to ask, “ever take advantage of you?”

“My father made sure he was the only one allowed to hurt me.” Laurens laughs, though it’s harsh and humourless, “Despite his flaws, he would have gut Washington like a fish, president or not, if he ever tried something with me.”

“Let me protect you, John.”

 

John pulls on his collar, looking away as he makes an attempt to escape the conversation he doesn’t want to have. His efforts are foiled when Hercules grabs his wrists and pins him against the sofa.

“What are you doing?”

Hercules lowers his mouth to Laurens’ ear, “What you’re too scared to do.”

“W-what happened to just being fr-friends?” Laurens asks, eyes wide.

“We are just friends,” Hercules’s response is easy and automatic, even as he eases himself up to look into Laurens’ eyes. “Tell me to stop. Seriously. If you don’t want this, you can tell me to stop.” Hercules loosens his grip a little, allowing Laurens the option to get out of the hold with the least amount of resistance.

Laurens stills, settling into the cushions beneath him. He knows Hercules won’t force him, won’t even try to convince him if he says no. Hercules has also been a sort of gentle giant, except for those time when Laurens pushes him to aggression. He wants to look away, hates how Hercules somehow sees through every facade he puts in place with just a glance. But he can’t. He’s never been able to.  

Laurens wants to grit his teeth and ruin the moment. Wants to pounce on Herc’s historical preference for Lafayette, but the animosity has long been replaced with regret. He should have known better, should have seen it in the way Lafayette charged into battle. It wasn’t in courageous spirit like everyone thought; it was careful, calculated, semi-suicidal abandon. Lafayette, like Laurens, had been running from something. The only difference is that the demon on Laurens’ back died. Lafayette couldn’t outrun his. Laurens wants to provoke Hercules, wants to be angry that Hercules abandoned him all those years ago, but he can’t. The time between being sent away, and being reassigned to the base at Yorktown was three months. The distance between them had been inevitable.  
Laf’s murder wasn’t.

Hercules is looking at him curiously.  
And Laurens nods his consent. No sooner than that, Hercules’ hands are on Laurens’ hips, tugging off his jeans. Hercules slips his thumbs under Laurens’ waistband but hesitates when Laurens jerks away.

“I had sex.” Laurens blurts out.

“Good for you..?”

“I mean, two days ago.”

Hercules leans away, supporting his weight on his elbows as stray fingers stroke the inside of John’s thighs. A smile plays on Herc’s lips, “Are you warning me that you haven’t washed your dick or something?”

“N-no, I just thought about it, and if you had… y’know, I’d want to know.”

Hercules shrugs, dragging Laurens’ boxers down in one fluid movement.

“Well, I don’t care what you do with your free time, it’s fine.” Laurens doesn’t have much time to be offended before Hercules is palming his dick. Hercules' eyes are relaxed and almost closed, head tilted back in knowing satisfaction, that by the end of the night, he’ll get what he wants. “Tell me what you know about the skeletons in Thomas’s closet.”

“Hercules, I made an oa-- oh!” Laurens jolts up at that. Hercules swipes his thumb over the leaking head, smearing pre-cum.

“You know I can get it out of you.” Hercules teases, “You know what I can do with my tongue.”

“Only because I’ve seen you in the Press Corps,” Laurens replies, but it’s quietly undermined by the thrust of his hips, the sharp exhalation that stutters out of his chest, floating on the wings of a breathless _"oh, f_ _uck"_.

“I’ll get to that,” Hercules smirks, spitting into his palm. He strokes Laurens slowly, earning a glare. Or, it would be a glare, if Laurens’ eyelashes didn’t flutter closed so blissfully.

 

* * *

 

“Shhhhhh,” Laurens is boneless, slowly becoming one with the couch, each muscle atrophying into cushiony softness. He sighs softly, too dizzy and breathless to be embarrassed or annoyed at Hercules’ laughter.

“They trusted YOU with national secrets?” Hercules chuckles, “If I'd fucked you, _Japan_ might have won the War.”

Laurens may have blacked out for a couple of seconds, may have bitten his lip bloody to prevent crying out Hercules’ name while he came down the man’s throat, but he’s still pretty certain that Japan is on the other side of the world and was in no way involved in the American War of Independence. Still, his body is busy redirecting blood flow and his brain is playing catch-up with his cock. All he can manage to get out is...

“But Britain and America..?”

“Jesus,” Hercules runs a hand down his face, if only to hide his smirk. Hercules pushes off on his hands, standing to admire his handiwork. He had reduced a secret service agent to a gooey puddle of melted butter. “My point exactly.”

 

“You can publish it, y’know. All of it.” Laurens says when he finally catches his breath. “I’m done protecting this administration. Protecting Jefferson.”

“You know I wouldn’t, John,” Hercules says softly, “they’d know it was you; they’d have your head on a block.”

“I’m a soldier. I’m disposable.”

“Not anymore.”

Laurens doesn’t want to ask what Hercules means by that. Doesn’t want to endanger Hercules more than he already has.

“It was… good to see you after so long.” The words out of Laurens' mouth are neutral, and his nerves settle a little.

“I agree.” Hercules stands, although taken aback by Laurens’ abrupt change of tone. Laurens takes the time to get redressed, turning about to look for his shirt, but Hercules’ voice catches his attention: “I’m going to Ohio tomorrow; for President Jefferson’s campaign speech..?”  
Hercules chuckles awkwardly, “Y-you probably already know about that anyway. I come back in a week, maybe we could meet then?” Herc’s eyes light up, “...coffee?”

Laurens wants to say yes, so badly. Wants what they had a decade ago. But still, he shakes his head. He exhales slowly, raising his hands to frame Hercules’ face. “I wish I could, Hercules. I really do.”

 


	7. (+1) When...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's still time.

 

 

When Hercules saw Laurens for the last time. Neither of them knew it would be the last time. Because it wasn’t.   
He sees Laurens two days later, bleeding out next to the President of the United States, bullet wounds in his chest fired from Alexander’s gun.

Xander looks so different to how Hercules had imagined him in his fits of rage. Hercules had always imagined a French courtesan or an immigrant homewrecker, content to destroy his happiness. But here, Alexander is determined and intense in his duty.

It’s the first time they speak, face to face, and Hercules can finally see what Lafayette had seen.

Hercules gets the coffee he wants a week later, though it’s with Alexander instead of Laurens, and the topic of discussion is more Jefferson and Laurens than Lafayette. It's nothing out of the ordinary; the whole country is buzzing with talk about the assassination attempt.

Alexander pays, slipping Hercules a flashdrive with a subtle nod as he leaves.

 

Protected by the first amendment and plausible deniability, Hercules knows better than to ask questions at this point.

 

When Hercules gets home, it's to an empty apartment. It's bigger than the one he had as a struggling student, but it's lonely now more than ever.

Laurens isn't going to drop by unannounced anymore.

Hercules should throw out the peanut butter.

 

He sits in the living room, mostly because it still smells like Laurens, and sticks the flashdrive into his laptop. It's empty except for a single audio file, and Hercules sighs in disappointment.

He taps the play button and waits.

 

_“Hercules,”_   


Hercules’ heart skips a beat. He knows Laurens’ voice _anywhere._

 

_“I recorded this because I know I won’t see you again. You need to be careful from now on, because things are about to get a little more dangerous. I killed the President of the United States, and you’re the only one who will know why in my own words._

_I have no animosity towards Jefferson, Adams, or Washington._

_I defended each to the best of my ability, as well as their Vice Presidents. I met Thomas Jefferson when he was Adams’ VP. This you already know. However, as part of my security clearance, I have access to a number of classified documents. By the time you listen to this, three should be in your dropbox._

_I know you think Jefferson covered for Washington, and the First Gentleman’s story is a cop-out as well. That is not the case._

_My father…_

_Jefferson is a career alcoholic, who’s probably known scotch before the Capitol. He claimed to work with Lafayette on the French Bill of Rights, but this is not the case. My father was a rapist, and he did victimize the First Gentleman, as he claims._

_Washington was also a rapist. But above all, he was a coward. Before he selfishly slashed his throat, and took his own life, he made victims of many: Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, and Gilbert Lafayette...  that I am certain of. Perhaps Charles Lee, rest his soul, and John Jay, as well. Washington admits to it on a video that was never released to the public. A copy of that tape is now in your possession. It’s… graphic, to say the least._

_Lafayette never made it to France, Hercules. Washington killed him and buried him out in a shallow grave somewhere, possibly out in the desert. From Washington’s diaries, it’s apparent that Washington also had a lengthy... non-consensual sexual relationship with Lafayette, but it’s hard to tell how much of it is truth, and how much of it is Washington’s attempt at obfuscation._

_I shot Jefferson because of my own guilt. Because I should have seen what was happening with Lafayette. I wanted to prevent another Washington in our midst. I cannot prove that Jefferson is a rapist, but I know he abused his power, and is not fit to hold the reins of government. He broke Alexander’s wrist. He broke the Special Advisor's wrist. Jefferson is a serial philanderer, and if it won’t hurt your reputation, there’s a decent story in there._

_Maybe I’m dead right now. Either way, you should transcribe this, just in case the FBI or Secret Service come by. They'll probably ask you if you knew what I was planning to do. Tell the truth, or Director Maria Reynolds will scare the hairs off your chest._

_But I’m glad you’re happy and successful. You deserve it more than anyone. You may have been the best thing that ever happened to me, y’know that? And I wish things had worked out differently between us, that I didn't miss the milestones, your graduation, that I hadn't been reassigned. More than anything, you made me feel safe. You felt like home. I love you, Hercules.”_

 

Hercules pauses the tape. It’s too late to wonder about what could have been. But at least Laurens is alive. He rewinds five seconds, presses play, and leans back into his pillows.

 

_“I love you, Hercules.”  
_Hercules smiles, “I love you too, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment below to join the party (which, knowing me, hasn't yet been planned.)


End file.
